


Half-life.

by delgaserasca



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-6.08. Ros battles purgatory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-life.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Denz for her beta prowess.
> 
> Written for omnomnom17

 

 

**half-life.**

 

 

 

(In Boston  
the dying  
ride in cabs,  
yes death again,  
that ride home  
with our boy.)  
**anne sexton, _sylvia's death_**

* * *

it happens like this

 

 

 

first, you die. you die in such a way that you convince yourself that you are dead. and then you come back to life which is a surprising turn of events until you see adam carter looking down at you in your own coffin and you realise, how you realise, what this man is. this man is relentless in all ways, and you don't know whether or not to be grateful for that.

no time, though: he slips you a bag - coat, cash, career change - and then you're out of there and out of time. 

so in effect you die. you are dead.  
  
  
  
  
your resurrection is the antithesis of a second-chance hallelujah. you're not a person who regrets though you admit when you make mistakes. your mother taught you that much. but now here you are in a cafe in darlington, motherless and sampling the truly dismal tea. it's raining outside. it could be raining inside for all the good the constantly open door does. the china is chipped, the wallpaper faded and damp, and you, you, you, you're just another passer-by moving from _a_ to _b_. 

you know a; it's where you were. but where is b? 

you leave without finishing the tea.  
  
  
  
  
the way it works is: you're dead, so you have no home, and you have no family, and you have nothing. this, as it turns out, is a perfectly acceptable way of living. fewer things, fewer burdens. you don't bother finding somewhere else to live; you've enough money for now that you don't need a job. and thank god for that, if only because you've never really seen yourself as a checkout girl. you might snap and kill a customer. 

but the way it works is: you know no-one and no-one knows you, and when the news rings in of an averted disaster in The City, you wonder who's still alive to tell the tale.  
  
  
  
  
you contemplate writing to harry. you know he forgave you, at least as much as he could after everything that happened. you still refuse to bow to shame - yalta turned out to be the wrong direction, but your intention, what you were trying to do, you still believe in that. 

you dream of zaf sometimes. you dream of his screams. of his face and his voice and his casual relationship with the world around him. you dream of his fear and his pain. you dream of the last time you saw him. 

you dream of the ocean, too, but that doesn't mean a damn thing.  
  
  
  
  
you curse adam for this. this is no substitute for the life you were living. this is no substitute for death. 

this is not a death wish, but you have come unstuck. what now, what now?  
  
  
  
  
tick-tick, tock; tick-tick, tock; tick-tick, tock. the clock in the hall keeps time by heartbeat and keeps you awake. all this stillness is bad for your bones, you think, it's bad for the brain. you need something to do. restlessness keeps you tired; tiredness keeps you awake. waking makes you restless, and so on, und so weiter. 

your life these days is tea rooms and rain, all action and inconsequence, and in a moment of weakness you consider labelling this _purgatory_. 

get on with it, she thinks as she dials the number she shouldn't dial, just send me on down to hell.  
  
  
  
  
connie seems unsurprised to hear from you and her words are a welcome tone in your ear. you would never say so out loud but you are relieved to hear her voice. connie is reliably matter-of-fact, and as it turns out being dead is currently running in your favour. _death has no dominion_ , you think to yourself, listening carefully to the instructions you're given. 

you return the phone carefully to the cradle, and then you breathe again, as though for the first time. hallelujah. this is rebirth.  
  
  
  
  
It happens like this: you die, you are dead, you do your time, and then you must be thrown out before you can be reeled in. 

Fish on a hook; well, well; you'll see.  
  
  
**end.**  
  


* * *

_And Death Has No Dominion_ is a poem by Dylan Thomas.

 


End file.
